


Sleepy Voices and Messy Hair

by sleeping_lions



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Coffee, Fluff, Lazy Morning, Multi, SO FLUFFY, The Morning After The Night Before, cuteness, messy hair, sleepover, sleepy voices
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-15
Updated: 2013-06-15
Packaged: 2017-12-15 01:46:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/843877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleeping_lions/pseuds/sleeping_lions
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-party Les Amis. Courfeyrac's being annoying, Jehan's neck hurts, Combeferre and Éponine are spooning, Feuilly's playing Angry Birds, poor Bossuet has no blankets, Marius pulled his hamstring and Enjolras really needs new friends.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sleepy Voices and Messy Hair

“Combeferre!”

There was no answer.

“Combeferreeeeee!” 

“Courfeyrac,” Combeferre mumbled from somewhere under a mound of blankets and pullows, “If you don’t shut up I am going to brain you with my philosophy textbook.”

There was silence.

“But Combeferre!” 

There was a loud groan of outrage from several of the Amis and Courfeyrac yelped in pain as Éponine stuck out her leg to kick him violently in the spine.

The Amis were in various states of unconsciousness in Feuilly, Bahorel and Grantaire’s living room following a party the previous night. It was unusual that they would turn their weekly get-togethers into impromptu sleep-overs; but after the Tequila had been brought out last night by Jehan and Marius pulled his hamstring during a particularly handsy game of Twister (that everyone had made a solemn promise never to mention again, especially after Joly put his hand on Combeferre’s crotch and Éponine ended up with her mouth dangerously close to Musichetta’s nipple), nobody was in a fit state to get themselves home. So Grantaire and Feuilly had succeeded in finding every duvet, sleeping bag, pillow and blanket in the flat and unceremoniously dumped them on the floor of their living room to create a nest that everyone had quickly curled up into. 

Marius - the wounded soldier - had occupied the sofa, with Cosette sleeping on the floor next to him. Their hands were loosely entwined and the only visible part of Cosette was the crown of her blonde head, the rest of her seemingly eaten up by Grantaire’s old sleeping bag. Jehan was curled up in an armchair swathed in blankets, his head resting on the arm and an ache no doubt developing in his neck.

Musichetta and Joly had created their own little burrow in the far corner of the room and Bossuet - forever the unlucky one - had been the only one left with no blankets, so he gravitated towards the hypochondriac and his girlfriend throughout the course of the night, until all three of them were curled up together with no apparent qualms over how they had found themselves in this situation. Bahorel was starfished out on his back in the centre of the room and Feuilly had his head propped up against his huge friend’s rock-hard stomach, playing Angry Birds on his Bahorel’s phone, which had slipped out of his pocket overnight. Feuilly always woke up at the crack of dawn and was foreign to the concept of a ‘lie in’, so it was all he could do to not get up and disturb his sleeping friends.

Grantaire and Enjolras were in an interesting predicament, and it was no-doubt one they’d find very embarrassing when they woke up. They were lying together in another corner of the room, sharing a single pillow between them, the width of Grantaire’s hand being the only thing separating their faces. Enjolras also had his legs hooked through Grantaire’s (something which he’d deny vehemently later). Had they been conscious, Éponine would have been taking pictures of them together for blackmail ammunition while Cosette and Jehan clucked about how cute they were and Courfeyrac, Bahorel and Combeferre started a wager on the future of their relationship (at present, Combeferre would owe Courfeyrac €50 if they got their shit together and actually started dating). 

Combeferre and Éponine were asleep by the door, with Courfeyrac splayed out near their feet. Éponine liked to be close to the nearest exit at all times - a left over survival tactic from her days living with an abusive family - but consequently she became cold and had demanded earlier in the evening that Combeferre spoon with her to keep her warm, and Combeferre had complied - partly because he was unable to say no to Éponine no matter what she asked of him, and partly because she was scary when she was bossy. So Éponine curled up while Combeferre enveloped her in his huge lanky frame, his arm wrapped comfortingly around her waist and her long black hair tickling his nose. 

Éponine had never had such a good night’s sleep, she would come to realise later. Not that she’d ever admit it.

Everything - the blankets, the pillows, the sleeping bags (fuck, the entire room) - had the faint stench of pot and cigarette smoke, which was 65% Grantaire’s fault and 35% Feuilly and Bahorel’s fault combined. 

“Okay I’m sorry but Combeferre can you please turn off the TV because the light is hurting my eyes and you have the longest limbs so you can reach,” Courfeyrac hissed in one long breathe, shying away from Éponine incase she tried to hurt him again. 

“I hate you so much,” Combeferre groaned, leaning away from Éponine so he could push the button on the front of the TV, which was playing some sort of irritating jingle on repeat from the menu screen of the film they had watched the night before. She whimpered from the loss of contact and burrowed further into his chest.

“I second that,” she murmured sleepily, “You’re such a little bitch, Courf.” 

“I concur wholeheartedly,” came a mumble from across the room, possibly from Cosette as she rolled around in her sleeping bag.

“What are we concurring with?” breathed Jehan, sitting up dazedly, “Fuck, my neck!” 

“From what I gather, how much of a little bitch Courf is for waking you all up,” Feuilly told him levelly, putting down Bahorel’s phone and settling down on the aforementioned’s stomach.

“I hope you get stricken with a particularly nasty bout of tetanus, Courfeyrac,” Joly rasped, his voice sounding like he had been gargling nails. 

“I hope your mum gets stricken with a particular nasty bout of my dick,” Courf retorted with a grin, seemingly proud of himself. 

“You are so disgusting, I can’t even look at you right now,” Éponine grabbed a pillow and threw it over Courf’s face, “Quick, someone hold it down and smother him before he can get up.” 

“Is everyone awake yet?” Feuilly asked, hauling himself to his feet. He was clad in just a pair of ancient-looking jogging bottoms covered in cigarette burns and a t-shirt with a wine stain down the front, “Because I’m going to take a fuckload of paracetamol and then get started on breakfast.”

“Bahorel, Grantaire and Enjolras aren’t up yet,” Combeferre mumbled into Éponine’s neck, “and neither am I.”

“Bugsy turn around touch the ground not waking up Enjolras and Grantaire!” Courf whisper-shouted.

“Are you fucking joking? Nobody go the fuck near them or I’ll lynch you. Let’s leave them until we can drag Grantaire away, he sleeps like the dead so we could put him on the roof and he wouldn’t notice. I am not dealing with the repercussions of their current predicament, Enjolras would probably moan about it for weeks,” Feuilly shuddered. 

“Yeah because he’s totally in lesbians with Grantaire, he just won’t admit it to himself,” Courf snickered. 

“And Bahorel?” Jehan wondered, carefully changing the subject from the rather complicated mess that was Enjolras and Grantaire’s relationship.

In response to Jehan’s question, Feuilly turned around and booted Bahorel in the side with his foot.

Bahorel cried out in pain and curled up protectively into a ball, shying away from Feuilly, who then proceeded to jump heavily on Bahorel, knocking all the air from his lungs. Feuilly pinned down his arms and clamped his legs around his hips so he couldn’t sit up.

“Good morning, dearest,” Feuilly said lightly, a huge shit-eating grin on his face.

“Get the fuck off me you little ginger shit!” Bahorel growled, struggling to push his friend away. Eventually, due to Bahorel’s height and muscle advantage he was able to throw Feuilly off him and stand up triumphantly.

“If I wasn’t so tired and if everyone in the room wasn’t still asleep I would punch you in your smug freckled face you cunt.”

“Oh don’t worry,” Cosette grinned, wriggling out of her sleeping bag and sitting crossed legged, “We’re awake, proceed.”

“Don’t fucking proceed,” Feuilly laughed, dancing away from him and into the doorway.

“You better be on your way to make me a bucketload of peppermint tea, I need to flush out my toxins.”

“Ooh ‘toxins’, get you!” He turned to look at the rest of the room, “Are waffles okay with everyone?”

“No no, you relax Feuilly,” Marius said suddenly, sitting up with a jolt and scaring everyone who assumed he’d still been asleep, “I’ll get started on breakfast.”

Marius was a positively appalling cook, and the Amis knew this well. Too well. The only problem was, Marius loved nothing more than to potter around in the kitchen fixing snacks for his friends or preparing meals that took genuine time and effort, so none of them had the heart to tell him that his cooking made them want to be sick.

“No no mate, you rest. You’ve hurt yourself,” Feuilly said quickly, looking around the room to scan the faces of his friends (who all look genuinely terrified), “I’ll do it. Waffles? Yes? I could just force you all to eat Flaki.”

“Is that more of your weird Polish shit?” Bahorel asked indelicately. 

“Don’t be racist against my motherland,” Feuilly warned without a hint of irony, “It’s tripe soup.”

“I would prefer waffles-“

“I’m not eating that shit, make fucking waffles-“

“Waffles please, Feuilly-“

“If you’re sure you don’t want my help, waffles would be lovely-“

“WAFFLES!” Courfeyrac screamed, making everyone jump. He began a rather tune-less rendition of ‘The Waffle Song’ and was quickly buried under a mountain of pillows that his friends threw at him in disgust.

Someone stirred in the corner, woken by Courfeyrac.

It was Enjolras.

“Jesus fucking christ,” he groaned, blanching when he realised what position he was in and rectifying the problem by tumbling gracelessly out from under their shared duvet and onto the cold floor, clad in just his boxers with his long blonde hair a tangled mess around his face.

“Looks like someone had fun last night,” Bahorel sniggered, nodding at Enjolras’ distinct lack of attire. 

“I really need new friends, you are all such arseholes,” Enjolras sighed, standing up to look for his clothes. 

“Seconded,” Feuilly sighed, shaking his head and moving into the kitchen.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading :)
> 
> Follow my tumblr: http://rouge-la-flamme-de-la-colere.tumblr.com


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